


Everytime My Heart Breaks Down

by slash4femme



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domesticity, Historical References, M/M, cross-dressing, thematic use of recent events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slash4femme/pseuds/slash4femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England and Poland's relationship is a beautiful and fragile thing made even more so by the social tensions around Polish immigration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everytime My Heart Breaks Down

I.  
England wakes up with the feeling that today is not going to be a good day.

He stumbles groggily out of bed and down the stair to make himself a cup of tea and drinks that before wandering off to the bathroom and a fresh change of clothes. The commute into the office takes about the same time it always does but England still manages to get especially irritated at the traffic anyway. There are two stacks of reports for him to read on his desk when he gets into his office. There is something wrong with the plumbing in the loo on the next floor if the strategically placed wastepaper baskets half full of grey water are any indication. He sits at his desk sipping a cup of tepid tea, going through paperwork, and listening to water hit the bottom of the plastic basket with dull little plops every few seconds or so.

A squat little ugly thing with bat wings perches on the outside of the window along with an equally unattractive pigeon and watches him work. England rubs his forehead and thinks it’s going to be one of those days.

By noon he’s only a quarter of the way through his paperwork and a trip to the loo reveals all of the toilets in his wing of the building are out of order. He also has a migraine coming on. England sits in his office rubbing his forehead, bladder uncomfortably full (and not in the erotic way), and tie half undone wondering what he’d done recently to deserve this.

He finally decides to go out. All of the restaurants and café’s around the government building where his office is located are packed of course. After standing in line for what feels like an eternity, England manages to finally relieve himself and order another cup of weak tea and a sandwich. He’s on his way back to the office, tea and sandwich in hand, feeling mildly better about the world when his phone vibrates against his thigh.

We need to talk

Is written in ominous letters across the screen with Poland’s cellphone number about it and England feels dread settle in the bottom of his stomach again.

Six hellishly slow hours later England finally closes his front door. He tossing his briefcase and coat in the general direction of the couch before stomping into the kitchen to find himself a drink. It’s later then he usually gets out from work but it had taken him that long just to go through all of the paperwork plus the surprise meeting he’d had to attend with the Prime Minister that afternoon. England swallows a handful of migraine medication and follows it up with alcohol. The medication is purely wishful thinking. England’s migraines, like all his physical ailments, aren’t caused by anything human medication can fix but he does like to pretend from time to time. The beer helps though, he takes a small sip studiously ignoring the squat little bat thing that has follow him home and is now eating one of his houseplants and grabs the phone instead.

Please he begs as he listens to it ring on the other end, please let this be about the new pair of shoes he’s fallen in love with, or something else as unimportant. 

The phone picks up.

“England.” Poland doesn’t sound happy and England swallows.

“Yes, hello love.”

On the other end of the phone Poland sighs, “like, what is going on over there?”

England blinks, “it’s late, I’m tired, I think there’s a football match on the telly, there was a body on the commuter rail this morning held the trains up for about forty minutes-terribly shame, there’s small gremlin eating what’s left of my peace lily . . .”

“No, no.” Poland cuts him off. “I mean about the Polish immigrants, like I know your people have a thing about immigration but is it really so bad? Us being closer like that?”  
The last part comes out sounding less angry and more bewildered and sad. England feels his chest clench.

“No, love it’s not a bad thing.” He says softly, leaning forward and holding the phone against his shoulder so he can rest his forehead against his hands. On the other end of the phone he can here the other nation breathing, Poland starts to say something and cuts himself off.

“I think I need to come over there.” He says softly, “We need to talk about this face to face, and like ...” England can here Poland sigh, “I want to see you.”

England rubs one hand across his face, “when are you going to be here?”

“Tomorrow evening, there’s some paperwork and stuff I need to figure out here first.”

“All right. Text me the time your flight gets in tomorrow afternoon and I’ll pick you up okay?”

“Okay.” Poland sighs again and England wonders if he’s tired, if he’s been working too hard or not sleeping enough. Sometimes Poland suffers from night terrors; sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all. Maybe the smaller nation is just that pissed off at him. 

England frowns. “Take care.”

There is a brief pause, “you too. I’ll, like, see you tomorrow.”

Poland hangs up and England listens to silence on the other end for several seconds before putting down the phone. He rubs his face again, and realizes he’s going to have to go shopping because Poland won’t be happy if he gets to England’s flat and finds it completely devoid of anything besides tea and beer. He’s also worries about just how angry Poland is, pretty angry judging by their conversation. England curses under his breath and throws a magazine at the gremlin that’s managed to eat pretty much all of his peace lily the ugly little thing hisses at him but doesn’t budge. After a minute England stand up and goes in search of a Chinese take-away menu. 

II.

Poland is hard to miss even in the middle of Heathrow Airport, with his wide legged, dark blue slacks, equally flowing black silk top, high heeled boots and large black sunglasses, bright pink luggage in tow. He’s wearing lipstick too, England always forgets when Poland is in Warsaw how totally and completely outclassed he feels around the other nation. It’s like if France ever took up cross-dressing regularly.

Poland comes to a stop in front of him, and England stuffs his hands deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket, which must look odd now that he comes to think of it over his button up shirt and jumper.

“Hello.”

“Hey.” Poland stretches up very slightly and kisses England on the cheek. “I hope your not planning on making me dinner.”

England blushes although from Poland’s comment or open affection he’s not sure, he smooths one hand down the front of his jumper and glances up at the other nation just long enough to catch Poland little smile. “No.” he frowns down at his feet. “I thought we could eat out, there’s that restaurant you liked last time.”

“It’s kind of expensive.” Poland takes off his sunglasses and scrunches his face up a little.

“I can afford it.” England assures him, “my treat.”

“Okay.”

Poland waits until they are out of the station and England has stowed Poland’s luggage away in the back of the car before he reaches out for the other nation’s hand squeezing it briefly.

“I’m, like, totally glad to see you, you know.” Poland tells him gently and England throws him a small smiles.

“I’m sorry about all this.”

Poland sighs, and shakes his head. His eyes slide closed briefly and when they open again, England sees they are bright and clear as ever and Poland smiles. “Lets just eat and enjoy ourselves. Plenty of time later to get into a fight you know?” Poland claps his hand together suddenly, “hey I wonder if they have Bakewell tart at the restaurant? I’ve been like totally craving it, I even had a dream about eating one the other night.” Poland holds up one finger and gets the very serious look on his face he reserves for giving reports at the EU. “Not to be mistaken for the dream I had where I was licking raspberry jam off your chest.”

England makes a choking, strangled noise and barely restrains himself from stamping reflexively on the break and slamming into the car behind him. Poland bursts out laugh. “God, you’re too easy to tease you know that? No wonder everyone does it.”

“So you didn’t have that dream then?” England is trying to get his heartbeat under control and he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“Oh no.” Poland eyes slide over to him, a smirk England knows well gracing his lips. “I totally did have that dream. It was a good dream.”

England concentrates on navigating the London traffic and not thinking about Poland having sex dreams about him. No, he’s really not going to go there, they’re going out to eat at a restaurant for God’s sake. Get yourself under control he tells himself sternly; don’t think about it, for the love of God, don’t think about it.

“If you and the lady will come this way.” The waiter tells them once they’re at the restaurant. England instinctively puts one hand on Poland’s shoulder as the slightly smaller nation gives the waiter a smile showing too many teeth and saunters over to their table.

“Everyone always mistakes me for a girl” Poland pouts over the top of his water glass and England coughs meaningfully as he scans the menu.

“That would be due to the fact that your wearing women’s clothes, dear.”

Poland throws him a look, “I wear what I like, what makes me look good, what makes me feel good.” Poland tucks a strand of blond hair behind one ear, “and sometimes that happens to be clothes usually worn by women. Besides you like me in women’s clothes.”

England blushes and tries to pretend that Poland hadn’t just said that in public. The little nation was fearless when it came to breaking social norms the vast majority of his bosses could stand him because of it. England was well aware what other nations said about his little lover behind his back, as he was sure, was Poland.

I promised myself in 1944, Poland had told him once, I told myself that if I came out of the war alive I’d do things I wanted to do, fun things, and not worry about what everyone thought.

Poland sniffs and closes his menu, “They don’t have tart here. You’re just going to have to buy me some on the way home.”

England frowns and opens his mouth to tell the other nation that he can blood well buy his own tart, but Poland is already not paying attention, waving for the waiter to bring them a wine list. 

III.

Poland takes the Bakewell tart out of its bakery box and slices it and puts two slices on dessert plates while England makes them tea. They settle onto the settee with tart and tea and one of England’s croqueted blankets across their knees.

“I’m like totally tired.” Poland leans his head against England’s shoulder and yawns before sighs. “So what’s up with all the anti-Polish sentiment England? France has no problem with my people in his country.”

“Oh, I’m sure France wouldn’t mind more of you inside of him.” England mutters darkly and Poland’s makes a ‘ttsking’ noise.

“I don’t care about France, I care about you.”

“I’m not . . . it’s not . . .” England rubs one hand across his face, suddenly not able to meet the other nation’s eyes, “it’s not you.” he ends lamely, “my people are suspicious of all immigrants.”

Poland stares at him for a moment then sets aside his teacup and holds out one hand.

“Look.”

England looks down at Poland’s hand, small and pale with just a hint of calluses. Poland has very pretty hands, hands meant to be held and kissed. England blinks. Then he notices, the faint tremor, Poland’s hands are shaking ever so slightly and Poland clenches one hand in front of England’s face and lets it drop to his lap.

“It’s been like that off and one for a while now, but I’ve been ignoring it or pretending it’s something else. I just . . . I didn’t want this to happen to us.”

England can’t help it; he reaches out for the other nation pulling Poland close and Poland leans against him for a moment before pushing away. “I care about you England, I care a lot, but I can’t stand by while your people hate and insult my people, being Polish is not a slur. There is nothing that makes your people innately better then mine, nothing.”

Poland’s hands have clenched so tightly in his lap that his knuckles have gone white, “I know this is partly my fault, there’s not enough jobs in Poland anymore, but we’re trying, my government is trying. And I don’t mind if my people go someplace else to work, or even to stay, I just . . . it physically hurts me when they’re treated badly. You know that.”

England sucks in a harsh breath, “I’m sorry.” He reaches out for the other nation, “I’m so sorry.” He kisses Poland on the top of his head, feels the other nation’s breath against his neck, “but there is nothing I can do, love.”

“Just don’t,” Poland hands clench into his shirt, “don’t let this get out of hand England, please.”

England kisses the top of Poland head again and rubs his hands across the other nation’s back. He wants to promise, wants more then anything to make Poland feel happy, and loved, but they both know he can’t control what his people think and do anymore then Poland can. In the back of his mind there is a little niggling voice that wonders what good would come of having so many foreigners in his country anyway? Will it hurt his people? Shouldn’t he love them first and foremost, care for them first and foremost, isn’t that his job? With Poland looking at him like that though, England hates that he can even think that way.

“There, there.” He says rubbing his hand across Poland’s back, and the other nation’s pushes him away with a huff that’s also a little amused.

“God you’re such an idiot.”

England immediately stiffens, “I was trying to comfort you.”

Poland’s hand clench, “I don’t need comforting I need you’re people to stop being racist jerks.”

They stare at each other for a long tense moment and finally Poland’s eyes drop away towards the floor and his hands unclench. “I’m sorry that wasn’t fair.”

England takes a long breath and closes his eyes and reminds himself that he loves the other nation, reminds himself that Poland’s been through a lot and thus deserves to be more then a little weary. “I’m sure this will all blow over and everything will be fine. I’m over reacting, you’re over reacting, but we’ll be all right.” He forces himself to smile at the other nation.

Poland closes his eyes and takes a long deep breath himself, “you’re right, I’m sure it’s work out.” He doesn’t sound that convinced.

England watches as Poland gets up and heads for the stares, “I’m going to go get ready for bed.”

“I’ll do the washing up.” England tells him, collecting plates and cups. He puts the tart away and washes their plates and teacups and dries them.

When he makes his way up to their bedroom, Poland isn’t there and England fears for a minute that Poland’s angry enough to have gone off to the guest room for the night. Poland’s things are there though, clothes, shoes and bags strew around the room. When England makes his way to the bathroom he finds Poland sitting on the edge of the bathtub painting his toenails pink.

England leans against the doorway and undoes the cuffs of his shirt and the first couple buttons at the collar and Poland glances up questioningly at him.

“Just enjoying the view.” England smiles and Poland blushes ducking his head, blond hair swinging to shield his face.

He’s dressed light pink silk pajamas a little too big for him, one little delicate foot braced against the edge of the bathtub so he can reach it to paint the nails. England waits until Poland’s done and has put the brush back in the bottle of polish before he walks over and takes Poland’s hands in his. He kisses along the faint bracelet of scars that still curl each of Poland’s delicate wrists. Poland surges to his feet taking England’s face between his hands and kissing him deeply on the lips. For several long moments they kiss, Poland’s lips press in hard little swoops against England’s, his tongue flicking out along England’s lips until England’s mouth opens just enough to let him in. They break apart finally and England braids their fingers together so that their hands clasp.

“Come to bed, love.” 

IV.

Poland’s up first the next morning, which is why the kitchen smells like frying eggs instead of an impromptu kitchen fire. England makes his way down the stares in t-shirt and pajama bottoms, he’s picked off the floor. Poland’s still in pajamas and bare feet as he prods the toast with a butter knife.

“You didn’t sleep very much last night.” England wants to reach out and kiss the other nation good morning but refrains. He grabs the cup of tea that sits on the kitchen table instead.

Over at the stove Poland shrugs with only one shoulder, “I don’t sleep sometimes, you know that.”

“You usually sleep just fine when you’re here.”

Poland moves across the room and puts a plate of toast and eggs on the table before leaning over and kissing England on the forehead, “not everything’s your fault you know, just let it go.”

England gives the smaller nation a long searching look but Poland only smiles and turns away, falling ungracefully into a chair across the table and sipping at his coffee.

“All right then.” He pushes himself away from the table and heads for the stares and the bedroom to get dressed.

He makes his way across the room picking up Poland’s clothes and folding them as he goes. He folds the blouse Poland had been wearing the night before. Downstairs Poland is singing as he washes the dishes. England can hear the clink of china against china and Poland’s off key harmony.

He can remember Poland leaning over that same kitchen table plans laid out before him. In 1942 Poland’s skin had been ashen grey, his hair already beginning to thin. When England had put his hand against the smaller nation’s back he could feel the way his body shook with every breath. England had hated the thought of Poland flying a plane in that kind of condition but there had been no stopping him. By 1943 Poland was couldn’t even hide the fact that he was coughing up blood on an almost hourly basis. I’m not coming back Poland had told him that last night before he launched a solo flight towards Warsaw to head up the Polish resistance, if I make it or not, either way I’m not coming back. England hadn’t known what to say or do besides pull the other nation close and kissing him until they both couldn’t breathe.

“You okay?”

England looks up to see Poland leaning against the doorway.

“You’ve just been standing there looking at my shirt.” The corner of Poland’s mouth crooks up into a little smile, “I know it’s nice and all but I don’t think it would be that fetching on you, you’d need a color that would soften your features out a little.”

England frowns and sets the blouse on top the pile of Poland’s clothing before crossing the distance and kissing the other nation. His hands creep up under Poland’s pajama top, mapping out the scars the crisscross over Poland’s chest and back. They pull part to breathe and Poland reaches up to trace along each of England’s eyebrows with his thumb.

“Like, don’t worry so much.” He tells the other nation softly and England sighs curling his arms around Poland’s waist.

“Shower with me?”

Poland grins at that, “sure.” 

V.

“You, like, totally worry to much Liet.”

Poland holds the phone sandwiched between his ear and his shoulder, while he rolls out some kind of dough on the kitchen table. England sets the bakery box down on the counter. Just behind him France gives Poland a friendly smile as well, and receives a rather surprised look in return.

“Like I know your economy is in trouble and shit . . .” Poland is cut off by Lithuania on the other end of the line, “no I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself, I’m saying you act like you can’t handling yourself, which is a total lie.”

Poland makes a face at England who’s just come back from putting away his coat. France is rummaging in the cabinet no doubt searching for the set of wineglasses he’d given England and which England had promptly hidden just to spite the other nation. Poland hops a little from barefoot to barefoot hands busy with the dough on the table and England notes the other nation is wearing, jeans and one of his t-shirts. At least he assumes it is his, he’s pretty sure Poland’s never been a Sex Pistols fan.

“England what did you do with those wineglasses?” France turns away in frustration and England grins while Poland rolls his eyes and points to the cabinet above the refrigerator.

“I just worry Liet, you tend to assume you can’t make it on your own and go running to the first nation that promises to take care of you . . .” More silence as Poland listens to Lithuania who, England can only guess, is less then pleased with the conversation. “It is true! It’s a historical fact Liet! I should know. No that’s not-this is nothing like my relationship with England.” Poland puts his hands on his hips ignoring the flour he’s spread across his jeans in the process. “I just worry about you, is that so wrong? Yes, yes we’ll talk about this at the meeting. All right. Take care of yourself.”

“Something wrong with little Lithuania?” France has finally managed to retrieve the wineglasses and pours them all wine.

“No more then usual.” Poland sighs, starting to cut the dough into little circles.

“It probably doesn’t help that you talk to him like that.” England points out, taking the wineglass France holds out to him.

“Although I do love a nation who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to say so.” France murmurs ignoring England’s glare and looking over the top of his wineglass at Poland, who gives him a flirtation leer right back.

“Oh I bet you do.”

England clears his throat loudly, and Poland grins at him. “France help me with these pierogi, will you?”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” England asks, hovering a little awkwardly by the table as two other nation’s set to work.

Both turn to look at him and then at each other and Poland points to the door. “Out. We’ll join you when they’re done.” 

England sits in the living room with his glass of wine and listens to Poland laughs from the kitchen. He sighs and sets aside his glass and picks up his embroidery instead. After a few minutes he looses track of everything except the feel of the cloth under his hands the push and pull of the needle and silk thread.

He looks up when France comes into the other room dusting a little flour off his shirt. “Poland is just putting the water on to boil.” He sits on the settee, wineglass in hand and England goes back to his embroidery. “He seems happy,” France comments.

“Yes of course, why wouldn’t he be?” England snaps jabbing the needle into the cloth.

“I wasn’t suggesting that he wouldn’t necessarily be.” France points out tone turning gentle. “It’s just that I know being with you is not easy.”

England’s hands still and he looks up at France. He’s not sure what his expression looks like but it must have been more vulnerable he would have liked because France makes a small gesture with one hands.

“It is obvious that you care very much for him.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Both nations look up at Poland standing in the doorway and England shakes his head, “no it’s all right, love.”

He ignores the fact that France gives him a long sideways look at the endearment, and Poland pads across the room the sit in another of England’s armchairs. “How’s Germany?” He asks France politely and France smiles almost gently at him.

“Fine, his usual self. I will see him at the end of the week to make sure he hasn’t worked himself to death during my absence.”

Silence settles between the three of them, and England feels restless and uneasy in a way that makes his hands itch, makes him want to do something, anything. It’s always like this when France is close. England watches France watch Poland, watches the way Poland’s hair falls to brush against the smooth angle of his jaw, watches France’s fingers curl around the stem of his glass. It feels a little like waiting for an explosion to happen.

“I’m going to check dinner.” Poland gets up and heads for the kitchen, England gets up too throwing a warning look at France and follows the other nation. He catches Poland around the waist when they enter the kitchen and pulls him close and kisses him deeply.

“What was that for?” Poland asks when they part, but England can’t tell him, can’t say, for being here, or for putting up with me even when I mess things up. Instead he just shakes his head.

Poland disentangles himself from England’s arm and moves across the kitchen to take the pierogies out of the water.

“Go tell France dinner’s ready.” He calls over his shoulder, and England does as he’s told. 

VI.

It’s raining which isn’t surprising really and England is staring out of his office window contemplating whether to do Chinese or middle eastern for dinner.

Poland has been busy in his own country, with his own affairs and it had been two days since they had even talked to each other on Skype. England misses Poland’s off key singing, misses the smell of coffee in the morning, misses having some kind of dessert every evening after dinner.

He’d noticed that morning, when he’d been hovering between wakefulness and sleep, that the pillows on the right side of the bed still smelled faintly of the strawberry shampoo Poland uses but even that was starting to fade.

His secretary’s line buzzes, and he picks the phone up.

“Mr. Kirkland.” The voice on the other end does not sound at all happy, “There is someone to see you.”

England isn’t really sure what that tone is, but he gets up anyway and wanders towards the front office.

Poland is standing there in a well-tailored, black suit, and stiletto heels managing to look classy rather then ridiculous as he smiles at England’s secretary.

England blinks, “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“I, like, just stopped by on my way to New York.” Poland turns towards England who is distracted by the large pot in the other nation’s hands. “And I bought you a new peace lily.”

He holds it out to England who takes the large plant and holds it awkwardly in his arms. “Do you have time for tea?” England sets the lily down on his secretary’s desk ignoring the evil look he gets in return. “There’s a place just down the road that’s not that bad, I think they sell coffee too if you’d like?”

Poland smiles so that England just catches a glimpses of dimples “tea, like, totally sounds great.”

When Poland holds out his hand, England can’t quite bring himself to reach out and take it, but he thinks one day, he just might.

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Hetalia kink meme
> 
> Notes:
> 
> -I apologize for any and all spelling or grammar mistakes in this.
> 
> -There is rather a large number of Poles living in the UK or so I've read, and there has been some tension over this 
> 
> -The Polish government in exile was centered in London during the Second World War and Polish pilots flew along side British ones.


End file.
